


Animal Kingdom

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Animals, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:39:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mozzie has a bit of a problem, of course, Neal is ready to lend a hand. However, Peter has his own difficulties coming to terms with the whole situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this little romp to make up for the dark and deep "Rage" posted previously. See, I can do funny, too.  
> And, just so you are warned, this fiction may contain language that could be offensive.

     Peter, being his normal obsessive-compulsive self, routinely took office work home with him. On any given evening or weekend day, a sundry assortment of FBI files littered his dining room table, their contents strewn about haphazardly until he could visualize their proper place in the jigsaw puzzle before him. This Saturday afternoon was no exception. However, even though the determined agent almost had the whole picture regarding this latest scam, he was more than frustrated that he couldn’t find the crucial lynchpin to tie it all up with a big red bow. Perhaps it was time to get some fresh eyes on this.

     When Peter arrived unannounced at Neal’s loft, he found his CI seated at an easel applying dappled pastels to a canvas. That gave the agent pause, as he idly wagered if he was witnessing the birth of an ersatz Monet. Peter was just about to make a suspicious wisecrack when a lusty warbling coming from Neal’s balcony distracted him.

     Over time, Peter had gotten used to seeing the stacked wooden boxes on the open terrace, home to colonies of Mozzie’s industrious little honeybees. If their presence did not offend June, and the muted buzzing didn’t bother Neal, Peter didn’t have a problem with it. After all, Mozzie’s homeopathic honey elixirs were not without their therapeutic merit. However, this new sound coming from beyond the patio doors was quite melodic, not the usual constant humming. Peter immediately walked out to investigate. He found himself staring at a small yellow canary in an authentically gilded cage who was happily singing at the top of his vocal register. The lilting notes were being repeated over and over.

     “You got a bird, Neal?” Peter asked in a perplexed voice. “Is this some roundabout way of saying that you require that little talk about the birds and the bees, Buddy?”

     Neal just favored his handler with a droll look and put his brushes aside.

     “That’s Sweet Darnell, Mozzie’s official food tester,” the con man informed Peter as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

     “Why would Mozzie need a food tes …….? Oh, never mind! Forget that I asked because I just remembered whom we were talking about. But why is he here, Neal?”

     The con man gave a deep sigh as he joined Peter in front of the small cage. Raising his voice slightly over the zealous serenade, he explained.

     “It seems that Mozzie has developed some kind of rash, or so he tells me. I personally declined to observe it myself. Anyway, he is convinced that he has an infestation of bedbugs in one of his safe houses, so he is having it fumigated. I get to pet sit until the all clear is given for the occupants to return home.”

     Peter reasoned that, surprisingly, for once there was a perfectly acceptable explanation. Oh, foolish, foolish Peter—the day was still young! As he was returning inside, heading towards Neal’s kitchen table, he was suddenly brought up short in mid-stride. Slowly raising the stack of heavy files that were still in his hands, a single-minded, aggressive Peter steadfastly zeroed in on the small brown rat that he saw perched there on its hindquarters. Looking quite innocent, it was nonchalantly polishing its whiskers with its tiny front paws. Thankfully, Neal noticed the bloodlust in Peter’s eyes, and immediately rushed forward in the nick of time before the determined agent slammed those files down with a vengeance on the little critter.

     “Peter, back off! Don’t turn poor Percy into a flat little crepe on my dining table. He’s a guest—another of Mozzie’s temporarily displaced refugees.”

     Peter lowered the files slowly, and stared at the tiny rodent before narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

     “This rat looks a lot like the one that was recently running through the bullpen terrorizing Jones.”

     “Seriously, Peter?” Neal said incredulously. “You’re beginning to sound as off-the-wall paranoid as someone we all know and love.”

     Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he just allowed his intimidating, flinty stare to bore holes into his CI.

     Neal certainly didn’t want to re-visit that recent hijinks involving Percy, so he sought to distract his handler with all possible haste.

     “Peter, it’s a shame that we don’t have surveillance cameras at the Bureau,” he said facetiously. “Then you could run Percy’s little mugshot through facial recognition software.”

     There was only silence on Peter’s end, so the con man proceeded to try escaping the agent’s death ray glower by removing some cubes of exotic cheese from the refrigerator. He spent an inordinate amount of time fussily arranging them on a delicate bone china dish that he finally placed before Percy. Like the proper gentleman that he was, the small creature seated himself in a refined manner and daintily picked up a morsel that he began nibbling contentedly. Peter’s barely-contained homicidal (raticidal?) glances did not bother the little beast in the slightest.

~~~~~~~~~~

     On Wednesday of that same week, the knotty case still had not been unraveled. Therefore, Peter again took himself to Neal’s with more files, a six-pack or beer, and a cheap bottle of wine in his hands. He knocked this time, and was puzzled when he heard an unfamiliar voice call out, “ _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here_.”

     Peter immediately recognized those immortal words from Dante’s epic poem, “ _Inferno._ ” They had been emblazoned upon the portal that opened into the gates of Hell. Suddenly, the FBI agent wondered exactly what kind of hell resided on the other side of this portal.

     He cautiously opened the door and looked around. Neal was seated on the sofa, book in hand, and didn’t bat an eye when a rather large parrot on a stand began shrieking, “ _It’s a raid! The fuckin’ fuzz has breached the walls! Where’s your fuckin’ warrant, J. Edgar?_ ”

     Peter was flabbergasted and had to raise his voice over the parrot’s loud rendition of a tonally accurate presentation of the “ _Dragnet_ ” theme song.

     “Neal, please tell me that you didn’t swap out the canary for this foul-mouthed fowl,” Peter pleaded.

     Neal just shrugged his shoulders helplessly and grimaced.

     “Peter, this is Lenny Bruce, and he has a rather checkered past, as you have probably already guessed. After you listen to him for awhile, you’ll come to have a new respect for the rather prim and proper little Percy who was staying here earlier in the week.”

     “So, he’s one of Mozzie’s menagerie?” Peter guessed.

     “Yep,” Neal confirmed. “Moz is on a mission to work his way through all of his safe houses, fumigating as he goes, so evacuated guests continue to pour into my humble abode.”

     Casting a wry glance in Lenny Bruce’s direction, Neal continued. “As you know, parrots lead very long lives. This week I’m graced with a feathered vaudeville act who probably perfected his flamboyant routine many years ago in a Catskills resort. He’s got a whole repartee that he goes through—dirty jokes and bawdy limericks to beat the band.”

     The parrot certainly was up to the task of emulating his lewd and vulgar namesake. As if to prove Neal’s point, Lenny Bruce began to recite:

     _There was a young gal name of Sally_

_Who loved an occasional dally._

_She sat on the lap_

_Of a well-endowed chap_

_Crying, "Gee, Dick, you're right up my alley!"_

The parrot cracked himself up and began to laugh hysterically before abruptly breaking into an aria from the opera “ _Tosca._ ”

     Peter just shook his head as the bird ended the operatic solo with a blistering string of swear words that put the federal agent’s ears in danger of bleeding.

     “Why in the hell would Mozzie even want a bird like this,” Peter asked with a frown.

     “Well, Mozzie was an orphan, so he’s got a soft spot for misfit strays. He took me under his wing, metaphorically speaking, when I first came to the city,” Neal said fondly.

     “And look how that turned out,” Peter snarked.

     Neal ignored the insult and retrieved some sunflower seeds from a bag on the counter. He placed a few into the small cup on Lenny’s perch, hoping that it was enough of a distraction to earn some temporary quiet.

     “Lenny is an African Grey parrot, a really intelligent species,” Neal informed Peter. “His brain to body ratio is comparable to that of higher primates. Scientists have observed that these birds can associate words with their meaning and form simple sentences. They also are capable of using words in context and in the proper tense.”

     The obnoxious parrot looked up at Peter, a sunflower seed in one claw, and remarked loudly, _“How do ya like them apples, dickhead!”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Agent and CI tried to work, they really did, but the distraction was non-stop.

     “Doesn’t he ever shut up?” Peter asked plaintively.

     “Actually,” Neal explained, “he’s usually quieter. But, you’re a fresh audience for him to foist his shtick on. Lucky us!”

     “Well, I need a break since we’re certainly not getting anything accomplished,” Peter declared as he rose to use the bathroom facilities. He quickened his steps as an irritating, scratchy voice began, “ _There once was a gal from Nantucket_ ……”

     Peter had lifted the toilet seat and was in mid-stream when he experienced the creepy feeling that he was being watched. Cautiously, he turned his eyes to the side, startled abruptly, and almost sprayed the tile floor. Over by the shower, quiet and furtive, was a rather hefty, long, grayish-green lizard who was eyeing Peter dispassionately. He possessed a rather impressive dewlap, with horny scales adorning his body. Spiny spikes on his back trailed all the way down to his tail. Even though the reptile seemed as still as a statue, Peter zipped up quickly and carefully backed out of the room.

     Ignoring Lenny Bruce’s new onslaught of patter, the rattled FBI agent enunciated slowly and clearly.

     “Neal, you have a _really_ big lizard in your bathroom.”

     “Actually, Peter,” Neal clarified, “Saint Ignatius is an iguana. He’s kind of aloof and likes his solitude. Ergo, Mozzie decided to name him after some 14th century Spanish priest who was said to be a hermit.”

     “Of course he did,” Peter said tiredly. “Might I inquire if there are any other creatures lurking about the premises?”

     “That’s it for now,” Neal reassured his handler. “I was spared hosting Sir Francis Bacon.”

     “Don’t tell me; I think I can visualize it,” Peter responded.

     “Yep,” Neal confirmed, “a Vietnamese pot-bellied one. Thank God his legs were too short to make it up three flights of stairs!”

_~~~~~~~~~~_

     By the weekend, Peter just could not help himself. His morbid curiosity was getting the better of him, so he made the trip to Riverside Drive to visit Neal’s zoo and view any new acquisitions. Much to his surprise, Mozzie was seated at Neal’s table, wineglass in hand.

     “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Doolittle, himself,” Peter crowed.

     “Suit,” Mozzie raised his glass in welcome.

     “Still de-bugging your residences, Haversham?” Peter asked politely.

     “But of course,” Mozzie agreed with a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m de-bugging them in more ways than one.”

     Since Peter had not spied anything with fur, feathers or scales, he took a seat between Neal and his little, bald sidekick and was about to inquire if Mozzie possessed the necessary permits to own exotic animals in the city. Peter should have known that he was a fool to let his guard down so readily, because suddenly a strange sight emerged. Strolling slowly across the floor, actually coming straight toward him on stubby little legs, was a small stocky brown body with a short thick tail. Its tiny pointed face was barely discernable as it peaked out from a frame covered in a coat of flattened quills.

     “Is that a porcupine?” Peter fairly shouted!

     His raised voice only succeeded in eliciting a frightened reaction from the newest visitor to the kitchen. Suddenly, all those threatening barbs were now standing on end, making the little animal look twice as big and quite menacing.

     Mozzie was quick to respond. “There, there little one. Don’t let the big, bad, _hostile_ G-Man scare you. Papa is here to protect you,” he cooed as he extended a slice of apple to the spikey member of the rodent family. He patiently coaxed the animal toward him until it gingerly took the proffered fruit and scurried under the coffee table.

     “Sometimes, Suit, I wonder how Satchmo has managed to keep his sanity under your roof,” Mozzie scolded.

     Neal was having a bit of trouble keeping a straight face as he watched the two adversaries square off. However, he was also wise enough to keep quiet and let this whole slapstick comedy play out. It was really quite entertaining.

     “Like I asked, Mozzie,” Peter continued, “is that a friggin’ porcupine?” His tone, although lower in timbre, had become demanding.

     “Why yes, how astute of you to notice,” Mozzie said condescendingly.

     “Let me enlighten you a bit, Suit. The North American porcupine is a large rodent, second in size only to the beaver. They are peaceful, near-sighted little creatures who would prefer to retreat from a confrontation rather than initiate one. Actually, I feel quite an affinity for something so like myself.

     Porcupines are herbivores, who, if cared for properly, can live up to thirty years. The word "porcupine" comes from the middle or old French word _porcespin_ , which means quill ‘pig.’ Its roots derive from the Latin words _porcus_ or ‘pig’ and _spina_ meaning thorns. Now you will note the use of the word ‘pig’ over and over, so can you venture a guess as to my little pet’s name?”

     “Don’t go there, Mozzie,” Peter threatened, but it was way too late to put the brakes on.

     Suddenly, the little quilled mass in question felt brave enough to leave his hiding place from under the coffee table. He had finished his apple treat and was cautiously ambling back to his benefactor for another.

     Mozzie looked at him fondly, then glanced back at the FBI agent mischievously. “I think that it's time that I made the introductions. Suit, meet your namesake, _Prickly_ _Peter._ ”


End file.
